I’ll make the confession…

I’ll make the confession…

I’ll make the confession. Every hour,
I think of you. Your name comes aloud
When I’m alone. In banter in my crowd,
I’m careful not to reveal your power
with an astonishing slip of the tongue,
your name, so familiar, for another.
You drop the phone when I call. Don’t bother
to call me back, if you dare. I’ve rung
your home and work numbers and learned your proud
pleasure in refusing me, your drunk
laugh, even your contempt on your stoop, from above.
When we walked, you ran. Your virtue is a cloud.
It means social position. I’ve not sunk
to giving this charade the name of love.